Shira Hereld


Shira Hereld is a freshman at the George Washington University, majoring in Theater with a double minor in Political Science and Creative Writing.  Her poetry has appeared in Choate Rosemary Hall’s The Lit, in the print copy of Teen Ink, and has received an award from the National Council for Jewish Women.

Six Months

The grass has grown tall as a tornado around us.

Deep beneath it, my memory of you is a shy brown rabbit,
Nestled in its close dirt burrow

Because it is spring,
You whisper ever more loudly in my ears –

And I laugh alone at our jokes

I dream of the graveyard where you and I sat,
Feeling the rough tombstones slide between our naïve fingers

Or of when we walked under ladders,
Pretending to find shelter from the rain

Soon you will fade into a blurry smudge
Wearing a faded flannel shirt

But for now, my memory of you is
Sharp as cumin or paprika

You are a flannel fish swimming through my neurons,
More alive with every spark

The grass, coarse as gravestones,
Binds, gags, and suffocates us

Because now it is summer.

Now you are bones.

In 2009, I lost a dear friend of mine - now, two and half years later, I find her all around me. Her eyes are in the leaves, her heart is in the sky, her laughter is in the wind. This poem is for her, and for every memory that can never be extinguished.